


Where the Willows Wave.

by agirlkillsgod



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/F, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, more tags & characters will be added as we go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27442948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlkillsgod/pseuds/agirlkillsgod
Summary: Guards push River Song to the throne room floor. She lands in a pool of her muddy dress and its lacy underneath. Beneath her, the marble is unrelentingly cold, but she refuses to shiver. The lioness’ mane is tangled, her cheeks caked with dirt; when she looks up, her smile is all barbed wire and teeth. It’s not nearly as apologetic as it should be. The dagger in her garter belt itches the skin of her thigh.“We caught this one stealin’ jewels, your majesties.”They untie her wrists. Princess Jane looks on more curiously than she should. She moves her lips, as if to speak, but no words come out.There’s something about the inconsistently coloured dress that catches River’s attention. This is what she gets, she supposes, for trailing tales of a woman with technicolour shirts, a circling coat, a hatred for guns and no name after only one encounter.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/River Song
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Where the Willows Wave.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amongststardust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amongststardust/gifts).



> aka, as i put it on twitter: the beauty and the beast au where neither of them is the beast and river is an assassin.
> 
> thank you bethlyn ( not that you'll ever see this ) for proofreading!

Under her arm is a lapis blue diary, cracked spine held together by a mere golden ribbon. Parchment pages are covered in splotches of ink from night-time carelessness and chicken scratch of indecipherable fables. Between the pages are pressed flowers and loose coins, random sketches and stray paraphernalia from her misplaced childhood. The only oddity is the mission inscribed on the first page.

River Song has the mission memorised, has had it memorised for nearly all her life, but it doesn’t stop her from reading it once more:

Kill Princess Jane.

She can see the Madame and her needle-teeth whispering the words in her ear as a brush tugs its way through her hair. Blood red lipstick always seemed sticky even if it never touched her skin.

She slams the diary shut and looks up to the surrounding stalls. Blankets and bunting, the smell of fruit and flowers. Waves crash against the nearby port, the cacophony audible even over squawking gulls, crying babies and braying mules. It’s hard to avoid barrels of water and washing lines as she searches for her next victim. 

Walking around the marketplace, she snatches two bruising apples; one, she hands to a child much too skinny for his age, the other she buries in her cleavage. Her kleptomaniac tendencies aren’t her own fault, but she never does much to resist them. When there’s an already stolen necklace, polished and sitting in all its emerald glory, it’s hardly her fault that it ends up around her neck and out of the bizarre without a penny being spilt.

The second time it happens, however, is entirely her fault. It’s a purposeful game of cat and mouse. She, the effervescent lion with a maw of sharp teeth; him, draconian in every way possible with fingers too long for his meagre hand. It’s the little things she notices – the engraving of someone else’s name into the rubies (Princess Jane.), the ancient chain, the spider-web of dust. All signs of stolen jewellery and from royalty no less. Here, River sees her way out, but most importantly her way in.

“Do you mind if I try this on?” She asks the jeweller, long lashes fluttering delicately as she reaches to brush the necklace. The dust that coats her finger itches.

“’Course ya can.” He’s moving before he can finish his affirmation. She moves her curls to the side, his slimy fingers feed around the necklace and clasps it shut. It’s a little tight, but nothing River can’t deal with.

“My,” she mutters, playing the part of awestruck perfectly. Whirling around to face him and dislodging his fingers, she thumbs across the rubious array. Nevertheless, “it’s gorgeous. Oh, I love it! How much?”

“One hundred and twenty-three pounds.”

“Oh,” the way he wilts towards her crestfallen tone is perfect. She takes a step forward, frowning lip pulled betwixt rows of pearls. She looks between his green eyes and small mouth deliberately. “Surely there’s some kind of arrangement we can come to.”

“Well,” his breath quickens and she becomes the subject of his total attention. “I’m sure there’s something…” When it looks like he’s going to lean in, she steps away briskly, blowing the dust from the necklace at him. She takes his disgruntled yell of, “guards!” as her cue to leave.

Chase has never been River’s favourite game, yet in her life it seems inescapable. Her dandelion dress billows around her ankles; a terrible disguise, really, for the yellow makes her recognisable in even the darkest of alleyways. The dark of night does nothing to enshroud the stolen necklace she wears. Leather boots stomp as she runs, crushing leaves and the mirrors within puddles alike. There’s a fork in the path, and, while choosing the right, she muses how often running gets her into trouble.

Right, she quickly realises, is a dead-end of should-be regrets.

She skids to a stop, and her chasers do, too. Two palace guards, but hardly formidable; their top hats are too big for their heads and their large hands make their pikes look small. Nothing she can’t deal with, despite the curse ghosting her lips.

“River Song,” the shorter one shouts. “You’re being arrested on three counts of pickpocketing, two counts of violence, two counts of theft, one count of trespassing, and one count of vandalism.”

“Well,” she begins with falsified incredulity, “you’re underestimating me! It’s three cases of theft easily.”

The taller one rolls his eyes and grasps River’s wrists, binding them without sparing her another utterance. She complies. It is all part of her plan. They march her through the streets of London and she does, at the very least, have the audacity to look sheepish. They don’t spare her the puddles for her repentance.

They pass a myriad of houses and stragglers. Children chase fireflies; shopkeeps store away the last of their stock; mothers collect in their washing; animals cry as they’re herded into their pens. The domesticity is something River thinks she won’t ever gain satisfaction in. They walk through back alleyways, over grass, under a bridge — until they reach the palace gates. 

Behind the wrought iron stands the most brilliant building she has ever laid her eyes upon. It’s a shame, River thinks distantly, that she isn’t able to admire it for very long. Ivy creeps up the archaic bricks and the grand doorway frowns. Towers loom and windows display the golden blaze of the setting sun. It seems alive in all its fortified glory. They push her down a dirt path, towards the stables and through a door. Deliberately through the mud, she suspects, unsurprised; she’s known the castle layout longer than she’s known how to talk.

This, she smiles to. Everything is falling into place.

* * *

Guards push River Song to the throne room floor. She lands in a pool of her muddy dress and its lacy underneath. Beneath her, the marble is unrelentingly cold, but she refuses to shiver. The lioness’ mane is tangled, her cheeks caked with dirt; when she looks up, her smile is all barbed wire and teeth. It’s not nearly as apologetic as it should be. The dagger in her garter belt itches the skin of her thigh.

“We caught this one stealin’ jewels, your majesties.”

They untie her wrists. Princess Jane looks on more curiously than she should. She moves her lips, as if to speak, but no words come out.

There’s something about the inconsistently coloured dress that catches River’s attention. This is what she gets, she supposes, for trailing tales of a woman with technicolour shirts, a circling coat, a hatred for guns and no name after only one encounter.

“Oh, I was doing a lot more than that,” Pushing herself to her knees, she shrugs. A pike slams down beside her and she dodges before her heart can beat again. “Steal from the rich, feed the poor – in fact!” She pulls an apple from her cleavage and throws it towards the array of grandiose thrones and revels in the way that idle guards rush to stab it with their pikes.

“You don’t get to speak,” The queen bellows, ignorant to her daughter’s descent into curiosity. “I’ve heard all about you and your crimes, River Song. It’s a miracle you’re only being captured now. But you brought me my daughter’s necklace—” A guard slides it to the queen’s feet. “—so I suppose I should be thanking you.”

The guards yank her back to her feet. She stands there, unmoving and a little confused. It’s not a feeling she enjoys.

“Instead of persecuting you for your crimes, I’m going to give you a month to prove if you can do something other than steal. I’m aware you live something of a vagrant life so to make sure you don’t run we will be placing you in the room attached to the Princess’.”

That’ll be a mistake.

Princess Jane stands and nods, beckoning her to follow as she walks out of the throne room. River does as she’s told, picking the necklace back up as she goes and twirling it tauntingly around her finger.

The ceiling above her reaches into the heavens themselves and the overlooking angel statues seem to watch her every movement. The night sky projects itself into the winding hallways, moonlight staring threateningly at the shadows. She makes a conscious effort to stay out of them. Up the stairs, around a corner. Candles take the place of windows upon the walls. River puts one out with her fingers to suppress a shiver.

“Why did you do that?” The Princess asks, speaking for the first time since River had been left to her. Her short, blonde hair sways as she twists to face the convicted.

“Do what?” Sugar seeps from her voice.

“Put that candle out with your fingers.”

“You scared of a little fire, sweetie?” The Princess huffs and it’s all the response River needs to smirk. 

The door ahead opens and if she couldn’t see the guards besides she would’ve thought it was magic. The Princess walks into the room and once more River follows. It resembles a science lab more than a bedroom, and somehow River isn’t the least bit surprised. Shelves are stacked with books and metal contraptions she couldn't dream of naming, bedding is unkempt and there are paint specs on the shaggy carpet.

It reflects Princess Jane in a way that’s more endearing than it should be. 

River turns towards the mirror but the Princess races ahead, pulling a drape over the glass. 

She hums. “Hiding things, Princess?”

“That’s none of your business,” the Royal’s short arm reaches out, pointing towards a door on the other side of the room. In all her marvelling, River had missed it. She goes where the finger points and steps over the threshold, acutely aware of how suddenly cold it feels. “That’s your bedroom. Goodnight.” 

The door slams in her face before River can even open her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be a oneshot but it got out of control so now it's a multi-chaptered fic. i have nothing planned besides what i've written & sixth form is beating my ass so don't expect quick or coherent updates because i, alike everyone reading this, have no clue what's going on.


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